One More
by TransYaoiboy666
Summary: Armand didn't think it was going to end like this.


He should have known it would go like this. It always went like this. Life truly was a marvel in the aspect that it would not give him a break. He should have known it would end like this when he had barely glanced over that contract at fifteen. He knew it was coming when he unwillingly received that envelope in that stale, white doctor's office at nineteen. He knew the glossy paper never lied, even if it held the same molecular density as a fortune from a Chinese restaurant; one of the least trustworthy pieces of paper on the planet. Well aside from the pamphlet given out by a politician. And he was fine with it. Content even. Of course, like most, he had that 'ideal' scenario that played in the back of his head, like a terribly written movie on repeat. But of course, he was no poet. That was never his line of work. But now, he couldn't help but think of the poetic justice that was about to be served. A symphony he had concocted all on his own. His own masterpiece that would be the death of him. Hopefully.

Two years ago, when his 'co-workers' had asked if he was 'fine' with this, he only replied with his own simple 'mhm'. And then it was fine. Nothing was out of place. His apartment was moderately clean, only a few small piles of laundry every so often, the occasional misplaced item that always seemed to turn up a mere few days later. His work was tolerable, enjoyable even. He didn't find himself weeping after a job, but he didn't find himself smiling uncontrollably like a Cheshire cat just exciting wonderland. He got up, did the job, and got paid. He never got paired off, so there were no unwanted distractions, no need to be sociable, no need for idle chit-chat. He just got the target and took them out. Everything was simple, everything was fine. That is until he walked into his practically vacant office. A simple intern handing him a cup of coffee, in hopes to stave off the impending tiredness and insomnia that came with the job.

But the thing was, he had never asked for that cup of coffee. He had never asked for a cup of lukewarm coffee with a cream and two sugars. He had only seen this man once or twice, weeks prior to this instance; in the completely unnecessary break room. He had not shared one word with the man, and yet here he was, bringing him overly sweet lukewarm coffee. This fact in and of itself only made him more curious, regarding the stranger who had so suddenly let himself into the office. He looked up at the man when he heard the small rustle and thump of the mug being placed on a company coster on his desk. His hardened eyes suddenly shone with slight curiosity, eyebrow raised in silent questioning. 'You looked like you needed it.' Came a thick unplaceable accent so suddenly that he was actually caught off guard, an instance he would never admit under pain of death. 'What?' he asked in quiet reply, becoming more confused by the minute. 'The coffee, it looked like you needed a cup.' The other man explained, leaning further onto the desk.

There were, of course, more instances of this calibre in the months that followed that Armand had begun to find more enjoyable. He learned the intern's name, Viktor Pavlovich. He would later admit that he loved the way the name rolled off in his native tongue. He learned that Viktor's sweet tooth extended to more than just his coffee and that his favourite snack was honey gingerbread cookies. He also learned that he always kept a package of the snack in the front of his computer bag pouch, just in case he pulled another long night at the office. After weeks of absent-minded conversation, Armand finally dropped the bomb he didn't even realize he was holding until he heard an accented, 'yes'. And he just sat there not knowing what to say until a bag of ginger cookies was pressed into his hands and he heard the door open and shut once more. He didn't see the Scandinavian man again until his lunch break when he was dragged to a small pub a few blocks from the office.

Three weeks later and halfway through another cup of overly sweet, lukewarm coffee, Armand learned that Viktor was writing a book. But he would never learn what became of this mystery manuscript. And four weeks into another cup Viktor sprang a word that made Armand choke. After another hour of heated discussion, they finally decided the word was correct in describing them. Armand of course never got used to this. He never got used to the close proximity and uncomfortably long stares. But he was used to the lukewarm, sugary coffee. He barely noticed the slight change in book selection or how the laundry was magically done. But he did notice the addition of the new coffee maker. As weeks turned into months and cups turned into carafes, Armand began to notice more and more. At the eleven month mark, Viktor dropped the end-all question and all in an instant Armand completely forgot why he had traded his snippier for paperwork.

He should have known. He should have foreseen this. Past experience should have moulded his decisions, but it was all forgotten. Forgotten in the heat of the many blissfully overly sweet, lukewarm cups of coffee. But all it took to bring him back to reality was the burn of bitter gunpowder and the salt of unshed tears. He hadn't realized his commercial break of happiness would be over in an instant and he hadn't realized that his lukewarm cup of coffee would run cold. He should have read the fine print. He should have searched for the clause that would make everything null and void. He should have listened more closely to the melodic tenor that would read him to sleep using the beautiful words of Shakespeare and Dickens.

Or maybe he should have just ignored it like in the beginning. Like he had told himself for so many years. Maybe talking to that lovely young man that he had grown to love and cherish was a mistake. But he could never stand to believe that, he could never regret meeting Viktor. He could never regret any exchange between the two of them. No, all he could regret was not asking him sooner. All he could regret was not paying more attention. All he could regret was his decision to stay isolated for so long. But he could never regret Viktor. And he would not regret what he was about to do. The simple wishes that played in his head that would never come to be. This he could not ever live to forget. And now this would be his driving passion, his new reason to be. A simple word on a simple strip of laminated paper. REVENGE.


End file.
